‘Huh?’ Jordie’s first sound in fifteen minutes. He fixed Tracey with a perplexed look. ‘I thought it was you this bloke was after. Dirty dick pics ‘n that.’
‘Actually, it’s both of us,’ said Gary. ‘He stole my money and, you know, the other horrible thing he did to me.’ A knowing wink. ‘And now the cunt’s stalking Tracey. Remember?’
‘Oh yeah, I forgot.’
It was time to step up to the crease. Take the initiative. Brainy Tracey was struggling to come up with a strategy. Cretinous Jordie was merely making up the numbers.
Gary grabbed a fresh piece of paper, made a show of smoothing it out even though it was plucked fresh out of a Reflex packet. He did a double take at the ream on the table. Where did that come from? He had no idea. Didn’t matter. He licked the end of a pen.
‘Yuck, phtht. Fuggen hell.’
He forgot it was a ball point pen and not a Keno pencil. A pen which now decided to leak big globs of purple-blue ink.
‘Hang on a mimut.’ He raced to the sink. Turned the tap on full blast. Water gushed out like a spillway during a flood, splashed onto the kitchen bench and the cracked linoleum floor. Gary stuck his head under the tap, sucked in as much water as he could. Then hawked up a disgusting wad of black spit and mucus. Repeated that three times then rubbed his face with a filthy Chux wipe ‘Whoa. That’s better.’ He resumed his seat, his face stained like a massive port wine birthmark. ‘Okay. Where was I?’
‘Stuffed if I know. It’s your circus performance,’ said Tracey, deadpan.
Jordie doubled over with laughter, banged a first on the table. ‘Geez, you’re a funny bugger.’
‘What?’
‘You look like Braveheart. Hope you don’t end up like him. Dead.’
‘Shut the fuck up. That’s not funny.’
‘Hey, leave the bloke alone.’ Tracey glowered. ‘He’s here to help. Be grateful.’
‘Yeah, I know. Sorry.’
‘No worries. Besides, I reckon I might have thought up a good plan for youse to use.’
Gary and Tracey gawped. Jordie had thus far made no suggestions. Gary turning into a human Rorschach test must have sparked his tiny imagination. It was sure to be a fizzer, but best hear him out. Like they say, out of the mouths of babes.
‘Okay, whatcha got?’ said Tracey
‘We shoot him. I mean, I shoot him. So—’
‘That’s been a given from the start,’ said Gary. ‘I thought you understood that.’
‘Course I did. Wasn’t finished.’
‘Do forgive me. Please go on.’
Jordie wriggled in his chair. ‘With my gun.’
‘Yes!’ Gary stood and punched the back of a chair. Was his little mate capable of thinking in any direction other than in a straight line? ‘That’s also a given. What’s the new and exciting bit? The bit that ties it all together? The bit that makes sure we get away with murder and don’t get caught? Where’s that bit?’
‘Okay, okay. No need to get on your Hills Hoist. Only trying to help, ya know.’
Breathe, nice and easy. Give the bloke a chance. The look of exasperation on Tracey’s face said her patience was also running thin.
‘Sorry again. No more interruptions. Let’s hear this grand plan of yours.’ Gary could be magnanimous when he wanted to be.
The residents of the little farm house in sleepy Wattle Hill witnessed a transformation. Shy, awkward, taciturn Jordie became a man of action, of vision, decisiveness. His eyes glowed, tiny facial muscles twitched.
‘First, we decide where to do it. Not his house, that’s for sure. And not in Hobart. Best place is in the bush somewhere.’
‘Like where we went hunting today?’
‘Yep. Lure him to an open spot. I’ll hide in the trees. I can ping him from at least 20 metres. Maybe 50 if it’s a still day. One shot to the head and he’s a goner. Won’t know I’m there. Like a ninja.’
‘What if he won’t come?’
‘Make him. Say the car’s broke down. Or you’re too crook to drive into town. If he wants ya to knock off Nugget so bad like you say, he’ll come.’
‘I’m liking what I’m hearing. What else?’
‘Mmm,’ Jordie ruminated. ‘Had a thought. Gettin’ him to meet you alone in the forest won’t make much sense. Why would he do that? Smell a rat for sure. So you need to get him to come here to the house first.’
‘Why here? He’ll leave traces, tyre tracks. Fuck knows what other clues. Even a stray hair. I’ve seen enough cop shows. Silent Witness, Criminal Minds. That forensics shit puts plenty of people in the slammer. Even innocent ones.’
‘Simple. Meet him at the gate down the bottom of the drive. Don’t let him onto the property. Get in his car, tell him you already done it. You offed Nugget and you wanna show him where the body’s at.’
Gary and Tracey nodded in unison. This was starting to sound feasible.
‘What if he doesn’t want to go?’ said Gary. ‘Why would he?’
‘To make sure, mate. You could be lying. He’d wanna see Nugget dead wiff his own eyes, like.’
‘Ah, I guess that makes sense. But couldn’t he call Nugget on his mobile? If the bastard answers from the grave, I’m gonna look a bit stupid, to say the least.’
‘I guess he could try and ring him, yeah,’ Jordie admitted.
Was this where Jordie’s idea fell apart? All kinds of situations could crop up. Then again, if they were to worry about all contingencies, they’d never do it. Nobody would ever do anything. Tracey must have read his mind.
‘Think logically, Dylan,’ she said. ‘If I were Ed and you said there was a fresh corpse to show me, I’m not going to be wasting time making phone calls. I’m driving there straight away. No waiting. No checking shit.’
Jordie grinned. ‘Yeah. What she said.’
‘Yes,’ said Gary. ‘Curiosity will get the better of Ed. And if not, then…’
‘There won’t be any “if nots”.’ Tracey went to the kitchen bench, poured boiling water into a tea pot. ‘Sometimes you gotta have faith things will turn out okay.’
‘So, blind faith will save us, will it?’ said Gary.
‘Of course not,’ Tracey parried. ‘We still have to do everything to minimise the chances of getting caught. Even if we can’t eliminate them.’
‘Okay. But let’s get back to the forensics thing. Jordie, is there any way the cops will trace the bullets—’
‘Bullet, mate. I’m only gonna need one shot, I told ya.’
‘Sorry. Bullet. Can they trace it back to you? Or the rifle you’re gonna use?’
‘Dunno.’
‘What do you mean, you don’t know?’ Gary felt his jaw stiffen.
Jordie’s bottom lip trembled. ‘Don’t yell at me. I don’t understand that stuff.’
A light touch on Jordie’s shoulder. ‘Of course you don’t. So let’s try and figure it out based on questions I ask you. Firstly, what kind of bullets do you use? Are they common ones?’
‘Normal .308 Winchester cartridges. Nuthin’ fancy. Lot’s of people use ‘em.’
‘And what about the gun itself?’
‘I’ll use the one I killed the wallaby wiff. No paperwork for it. I paid cash to Arlo at the pub.’
‘But if the rifle gets traced to Arlo, then he can easily say he sold it to you. Then what?’
Jordie scratched his chin. ‘Fucken hell. This is gettin’ way too compler-cated.’ He gazed at his mug of tea for a second. Raised his head slowly, smiled. ‘Nuthin’ to worry about. Be more’n twenty years since anyone owned it with the right papers ‘n that. Maybe longer. This one’s changed hands more times than an old coin. Since the gun laws got tougher in ‘96, everything’s gone underground anyway.’
‘So you’re saying, what? That no one will link the bullets or weapon to you?’
‘Pretty much, yeah.’
‘Jordie, my boy,’ said Gary with a lung emptying sigh. ‘I reckon we’re set to go. We wait for Ed to make the call to me
in two weeks’ time. I get him to drive to Wattle Hill. Then surprise him with the news poor old Nugget’s gone to meet his maker.’
Even as he said it, Gary wondered whether he’d be meeting the Almighty himself sooner rather than later.
Chapter 27
‘Fucking miserable.’ If someone asked Gary seven months ago what his future held, this wouldn’t have been it. Standing waist deep in icy cold water in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere. Every fibre of his being was shutting down, internal organs threatened to boycott. Kidneys ached, even his testicles throbbed under layers of so-called insulating clothes. Now water had oozed inside his rubber gloves. His fingers barely moved, each knuckle screamed in protest as he felt under the surface for the metal cage.
The sky was cement grey with a curtain of mist rolling relentlessly from the east. Snow still visible on the tops of faraway mountains, but mostly melted away at ground level. Moisture-laden air would slap his face in the next half hour. The persistent breeze bit at the exposed skin of his face and neck. His break wouldn’t come for another three hours.
‘Stuff this for a joke,’ Gary called out to Jordie, standing a few metres away. ‘I can’t feel my fingers. Not sure I even have toes anymore.’ His speech sounded like he’d suffered a stroke. The cold had a way of doing that to his voice. Chattering teeth distorted enunciation. A stiff whiskey would help. He’d slam a dram at lunch; without fortification, getting through to knock-off would be torture.
‘Not wrong. It’s hard yakka.’ Jordie hefted a basket brimming with crinkly black oyster shells. His voice rang clear and strong. ‘Least we’re back at work. Was gettin’ bored sitting around, stuck inside.’
Nine days had passed since the two made their pact to murder Ed. Yesterday, they’d been called back to the oyster farm. Urgent catch-up work needed to be done. Lots of harvesting, shucking, packing. Clients clamoured, desperate for product. Export orders were piled up to the ceiling. Today was the first day in months the place was operating at full capacity, much to the relief of the owners and the staff. Most of them, anyway.
‘For the pathetic $15 an hour they pay me, it’s hardly worth it,’ Gary grumbled.
‘Waddaya mean? I get $20 an hour. That’s the award. They can’t pay ya less than that.’
Gary dropped the basket he was lifting off the sea floor. It crashed silently onto his foot. His safety boot softened the blow somewhat. Like a pillowslip cushions the landing of a chimney sweep falling from a ladder.
‘Fuck, that hurt.’ Gary punched his fist into the inky-black water; concentric circles fanned out. ‘Bastard oysters!’ He turned to Jordie. ‘Sorry, what did you say?’
‘I said I get $20 an hour. That’ll go up to $22.50 when I get me forklift ticket.’
‘Fuck me. I only get $15. How can that be?’ He knew what was up. Those fucking Fixers, some deal with Echidna Bay Oysters. Wage theft. And there was nothing he could do about it.
‘Dunno. Maybe you should check with Mrs Balmoral. Sounds like you’re gettin’ ripped off. There’s a union rep here who could speak up for ya.’
‘Don’t worry, mate. Once we eliminate Ed, you won’t see me for dust.’ There had to be other suitable low-profile employment out there. Something paying better than the oyster farm. Anything had to be an improvement. ‘I’ll get my money back. Then I’ll find another job.’ Maybe move interstate again. Western Australia. The goldfields. Far away. Leave Tracey behind. He wouldn’t need her anymore.
‘But why don’t ya look into it? If they’re breakin’ the law.’
‘Don’t make a big deal out of it. Compared with what we’re gonna do to Ed, them stiffing me on my wage looks like jaywalking.’
‘Sorry.’ Jordie flipped the heavy basket up with his knee, readjusted his grip. He started wading back to the sorting shed, creating ripples around his torso. He stopped, snapped his head back around.
‘What now?’ Gary narrowed his eyes.
‘Just one thing. Are you thinkin’ Ed’s gonna bring the money wiff ‘im to your place?’
‘Don’t be stupid. Why would he?’
‘So you know where he’s keepin’ it then?’
Bloody hell.
How had Gary overlooked something so basic? Killing Ed was only half the job. They had to break into his house and find the money. Without delay after the deed was done. That’s assuming the loot was still there. It had to be.
‘Know any good burglars?’ Gary asked, half joking, half serious.
‘A couple. One real good one in partic’lar.’
‘Who’s that?’
The little man broke into a broad grin. ‘You’re looking at ‘im.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Nah, true. Haven’t done it for years, but me ‘n Shifty used to knock over joints regular.’
‘Who the fuck is Shifty?’
‘Mate ‘o mine. From school days. Skinny little runt. Able to get through tiny gaps, real handy for a burgyular. Fars I know he’s still doing jobs. Sandy Bay, Taroona, Battery Point. Where all the rich cunts live.’
‘Did either of you ever get caught?’ Absence of a record would give them a head start on any investigation by the cops.
‘Only once. But don’t worry. We got off with a caution ‘cos we was only teenagers. Shifty was the main guy, I was his lookout.’
‘Gotta say, I’m surprised, mate. I thought your moral compass would’ve ruled out stealing as a hobby.’
‘Don’t need no compass.’ Jordie chuckled. ‘Tassie’s too small.’
‘I meant…oh, never mind.’
Jordie’s arms shook, he let the basket dip back under the surface of the water.
‘Sorry,’ said Gary. ‘Go and get the oysters in. We’ll talk more about this later.’
Another little duck lining up. Shifty’s nickname didn’t exactly inspire optimism, but if the bloke had never been caught, what did that matter? It looked like this plan might come together after all.
Chapter 28
Josh Turrell hated Muzak. Especially when it was ABBA. Even more so when it was Dancing Queen. The most godawful song ever recorded. And here it was, polluting the couple of cubic metres of space in the lift. The lift taking him to a heavenly rendezvous. To Selina.
Oh. And Ed, too. But that was okay. Taking one for the team, so to speak, was a small price to pay for the chance of another dalliance with Selina. He had boundaries when it came to Ed’s involvement. Hadn’t articulated them to the man yet, but was ready to say no, if and when Ed tried to push too far.
He read the message on the website once again. Cops were sticklers for detail. They had to be. Getting convictions depended on it. So did saving your own skin when a villain was out to set you up. Watch, observe, record, remember. If in doubt, check and double check. And he, Josh Turrell, was your archetypal cop. Yes. This was indeed the right day. Right time. Right hotel.
The lift glided to a stop at the seventh floor of the Grand Chancellor. A welcome end to that horrible song. The doors parted and he strode purposefully down the corridor to the designated room. Head down. You never know who you’d meet in this small town. Lots of people knew him. Too many.
A view of the Hobart waterfront from this side of the building was a big plus for tourists who stayed there. Sparkly lights at night, luxury boats and busy fishing punts during the day. A real selling point for the hotel. Tonight, the bustling docks were the last thing he’d have his eyes on.
‘Thanks again for an amazing night.’ Turrell wore a smile of satiated bliss. He did have to fend Ed off at one point, but that was okay, all was forgiven. The otherwise gracious and considerate host got carried away in a moment of high passion. While getting funky with Selina, he suddenly felt a strong, insistent hand massaging a buttock. Unless Selina was the world’s greatest contortionist, that hand belonged to Ed. A quick, sharp “No!” was all it took for the hand to retreat. It didn’t save him from having to perform fellatio on the guy. The entire experience was decidedly unpleasant. Left a bad taste in his mo
uth, as the saying goes. Thank God he only had to do it for a few seconds. Selina must have sensed his revulsion and stepped in to take over. Bless her.
‘Don’t mention it. Y’know, me and Selina were having a chat the other night, and we both reckon we’ve seen you before somewhere. But we can’t put our fingers on it.’ Ed grinned.
‘Dunno. People reckon I look like that actor, what’s his name.’
‘Ooh, I know,’ said Selina, reaching for a glass of white wine. ‘Joaquin Phoenix.’
‘Um, yeah. That’s the guy.’ Turrell took a sip from a stubby of Cascade Premium Light. ‘Must be the battle scar on my lip.’
‘How’d you get that?’ Ed raised one eyebrow.
‘Oh, um,’ Turrell stumbled. ‘Cut myself shaving.’
‘Fuck off.’ Ed laughed. ‘What were you shaving with? A machete? Nah. That’s from a bad accident. Maybe a knife fight. C’mon, man of mystery, what’s the real story?’
This guy wasn’t going to let up. If the cosy arrangement was to continue, perhaps it’d be wise to reveal something about himself. Something that might come out later anyway. Then he’d look bad for lying. Or maybe he could tell them he’d rather not say.
‘I’d rather not say.’
‘Really? That’s a pity, ‘cos I remember where I know you from. That hostage siege in Chigwell a couple of years ago. You’re the cop who stormed the house and rescued that woman. The boyfriend was a violent crack head. Threatened to kill her and her baby. It was all over the papers and TV. He went for you with a Bowie knife.’
‘Okay, you’ve got me bang to rights.’ Denial was pointless.
‘If I remember rightly, you got into a heap of trouble over that. Suspended from duty for disobeying orders.’
Turrell felt the heat rising in his face. Selina wore the expression of a starstruck teenager at a boy band concert. Ed looked like he’d figured out the true identity of Jack the Ripper.
‘Please. You can’t tell anyone about this. I’ve got a wife, kids…’
Ed stood, grabbed Turrell’s elbow. ‘Mate. Don’t worry.’
‘I’m bloody serious.’ He heard the edginess in his own voice. ‘If this gets out, my career’s over. My marriage is already a farce, but if she decides to go, it’s goodbye house, superannuation, the lot.’
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